Ken Bruen - Green Hell

I wasn’t sure where this was going or even why he was laying it out. He saw my face, stubbed out the cig, said,

“Thing is, I’m going to take him off the board.”

Was I rattled?

Phew-oh! I avoided his eyes, asked,

“Why are you telling me this? Us Americans, we specialize in euphemisms. Who else gave the English language the richness of:

bought the farm

punched his ticket

deep-sixed him?

So like, you know. . ‘take him off the board,’ am I reading you correctly?”

He gave a short laugh, nodded.

So. . so, I threw it out there:

“Kill him?”

Another nod.

Mystified, I reached for the bottle, poured a healthy dollop, drank, gasped, asked,

“Why on earth are you telling me?”

No hesitation.

“Because you are going to be my witness, my. . how shall I say. . last Will and Testament.”

The Jameson singing in my blood, I near shouted,

“You gotta be. . I mean, like, seriously, fucking kidding me.”

He stood up, stretched, said,

“Kid, I never fuck around with murder.”

Lines from Literary Heroine (Anthony de Burgo)

Everybody’s fuckin dead

of note

perhaps. .

Later I would learn that Literary Heroine , a prose poem, was de Burgo’s attempt at a “Howl-like” narrative. Jack commented,

“Tony likes to play, wordplay is just one facet.”

Did I believe Jack was seriously going to like. .

Um. .

kill a professor?

Shit,

I mean,

kill anybody?

Those first head-rush, adrenalized weeks of his company had me, to paraphrase Jack:

Be-fuddled,

Be-wildered,

Be-fucked.

As the Irish so delicately phrase it,

“I didn’t know whether I was comin or goin.”

My proposed treatise on Beckett was put on a haphazard hold as I tried to find a balance in Taylor’s world. A man who was as likely to split a skull with a hurly as hand fifty euros to a homeless person (providing he didn’t have a rabbit, of course).

A week after this bombshell, Jack invited me to an “Irish breakfast.” We met in the GBC, Jack saying,

“The chef, Frank, he’ll take care of us.”

I was about to order coffee when Jack went,

“Whoa, buddy, did I not say Irish breakfast?”

“. . Um, yes.”

“Right, so we’re having a fry-up and, fuck me, you cannot desecrate that with coffee, it has to be tea.”

I tried,

“I’m not real hot on like. . tea.”

He mimicked what the Irish think is a passable U.S. accent.

“Get with the program, pal. .”

It wasn’t. . passable. Not even close.

Heavens to Betsy, the food came.

Thick toast with a nightmare sledge of butter,

fried eggs,

rashers,

fried tomatoes,

and, apparently, the favorite of the late pope,

black pudding.

No doubt accounting for his demise. Jack explained the cups had to be heated and he stirred the tea with gusto, said,

“This is yer real hangover antidote.”

That, I truly had to take on trust. Jack ate with relish, me. . not so much.

He asked me,

“Know the one beautiful sentence?”

Like. . do I venture the clichés?

I love you.

I forgive you.

God loves you.

Et al. He said,

“Peace broke out.”

WTF?

He smiled, briefly, said,

“Not that you need to worry, peace for us is as likely as the government cutting the country some slack. You know the latest crack? Fuckin water meters in every house. The bastards think up new ferocious schemes to hammer an already bollixed population.”

I had to comment, went,

“Some turn of phrase you have there.”

A shadow, no more than a whisper of rage, danced across his eyes, he asked,

“Turn of phrase? Let me give you a real beauty.”

Like I had a choice.

“Lay it on me.”

He intoned,

“Catholic ethos is an oily and pompous phrase. . that sounded like a designer fragrance.”

Jack reached into his jacket, pulled out a crumpled copy of the Irish Independent (Saturday, August 10, 2013), said,

“Here’s what Liam Fay wrote:

‘ Fr. Kevin Doran is a medical miracle-and indeed, a miraculous medic. He sits on the board of the Mater Hospital’s governing body. Doran extolled the rigorous moral code underlying what he proudly calls the Catholic Ethos. ’”

Jack had to pause, rein in his rage, continued,

“‘ In adherence to this uniquely righteous philosophy, he insisted the Mater will refuse to comply with the new law that permits abortion when a pregnant woman’s life is at risk. ’”

I muttered “Jesus!”

Jack put the paper aside, said,

“Whoever else is involved, it sure as shootin isn’t Jesus.”

I don’t have a conflict of interest-

I have a conflict and interest.

(Phyl Kennedy-Bruen)

I’m caught staring at Jack’s face. He is brutally tan, as if the sun had a vendetta, personal, and lashed him. He smiles, tiny lines, white, creaking against the parched skin, like whiteness trying to run.

He said,

“I picked up a new habit.”

No need to ask if it’s a good one. With Jack, all his habits are bad, very.

Continued,

“During that heat wave, I’d take half a bottle of Jay, sit on the rocks near Grattan Road, and just. . yearn.”

Back to the murder business, I asked,

“How come you know about those girls?”

Paused.

Gulp.

“And the Guards. . don’t?”

He shrugged,

“The Guards know, they just don’t give a flyin fuck.”

Later I Googled Father Doran and learned his areas of expertise were, as Jack would list them:

The Supernatural

Angels

Saints

Fairies

and

Elves.

I thought,

“Fifty shades of demonic propaganda.”

Persisting,

“But you know him. . how?”

He seemed distracted, looked around him, then snapped back, said,

“A little nun told me.”

Before I could recover from this ecclesiastical bombshell, Jack said,

“Thomas H. Cook wrote in his novel Sandrine’s Case , ‘The sad thing in life is that for most people, the cavalry never arrived.’”

I managed to hold my tongue, not to be an academic asshole by saying,

“I don’t read mystery novels.”

I instead managed to still stay in facetious mode, remarking,

“But you’re the cavalry, Jack, that it?”

Came out even more sarcastic than I intended. He let that bitter vibe hover, then,

“Most ways, son, I’m more a scalp hunter.”

From Jack Taylor’s Journals

Sister Maeve and I had a history, most of it convoluted, most of it bad. But a year ago, by pure luck and thuggery, I managed to return the stolen statue of Our Lady of Galway.

Back in the 1970s there’d been the phenomenon of the moving statues. Our Lady, literally seen to move in various “blessed” parts of the country, led to an almost hysterical reaffirmation of faith in the country. Quashed later by the clerical scandals. But for a brief time, there had been “Holy Ground.” Our Lady of Galway had been moved by a gang of feckless teenagers.

My success in this case put me briefly back in the Church’s graces.

Sister Maeve came to me, told me of two girls who’d been savagely raped and beaten, tossed aside. We’d met in Crowe’s Bar in Bohermore. Sign of the fractured times in that a nun in a pub didn’t raise an eyebrow, mainly because she was dressed like Meg Ryan. She’d ordered a sparkling Galway water, to see, she said,

“The tiny bubbles shimmer.”

Two of her former students came to her. Amid sobs, fear, shame, and utter despair, they’d told her of their ordeal. How de Burgo, acting as mentor to their studies, had lured them to a flat on the canal. After, he’d thrown them out on the street, warning,